


I Remember Nothing

by Aviyara



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Light Angst, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Route, Selectively Mute Frisk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviyara/pseuds/Aviyara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara answers a writing prompt for a Creative Writing class. Angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some light reading

_Chara?_ Frisk signed from the doorway, their face a mix of curiosity and apprehension. They rapped on the doorway’s oaken paneling when I failed to respond. Probably assuming I didn’t notice them.

A tap at my shoulder actually made me look up in surprise. I was so used to Asriel and his bizarre propriety habits that some part of me never expected Frisk to actually come inside. The concern on their face made a clearer message than their pidgin sign language; I recognized the hand-flop that was _late,_ the domed hand-on-hand for _dinner_ giving way to two neat knife-strokes of _pie_. The rest was just an abstract mélange of worry. They tugged softly on my sleeve before their attention fell to my desk.

 _Homework?_ Frisk signed, concern giving partial ground to surprise on their face. Understandably so – my track record for homework completion was notorious, bordering on legendary in its incompleteness. I actually had to fight down a snicker as Frisk pressed their wrist to my forehead, checking for a fever.  

“It’s for Creative Writing,” I offered, closing the notebook and turning in my chair. Mom’s school offered a token smattering of elective classes, one period a week, to students past fifth grade. Frisk had chosen Elementary Magic Theory (probably to be closer to Sans, who was assigned to teach it); something had drawn me to Creative Writing. Maybe it was how few other hum- _people_ , rather, had signed up for it.

Our first writing prompt was simple. “Write about your most powerful memory, the one event in your past that most changed your life.” We were encouraged to make something up if we couldn’t come up with a memory that would fill a page, but it was recommended that we “write from familiarity.” Part of me laughed at the idea; our writing samples remained private, seen only by the teacher (a mousey-haired stringbean of a man with too big glasses and too many plaid shirts), but the idea of a class of angsty preteens “baring their souls” with stories about first crushes and divorced parents just made the exercise seem… ludicrous.

And yet I could not stop writing.

Something made me put pen to paper the moment I got home, some drive that felt as much foreign as it was overpowering. It was like my mind was purging itself through my hand, vomiting a monologue of bitter memories in black ink. I do not recall what time I arrived home, or when I started writing… but Frisk stood framed in moonlight when they came to rouse me for dinner.

A barely-heard keening from Frisk’s throat tore my attention back to reality. I must have spaced out pretty badly if Frisk had resorted to being _audible_. They signed again, slower this time: a sharp, pointed _downstairs_ , followed by an almost apologetic rub at their heart. _Please._

I sighed and hopped to my feet, taking Frisk’s hand with a gentle squeeze. If nothing else, they couldn’t complain as much with one hand. They pulled me from the room with a relieved smile, trailing their palm down from their heart – _thank you_. I couldn’t help but ruffle Frisk’s hair for their melodrama.

Something made me toss a longing look at my notebook from the doorway before Frisk tugged me onwards and down the stairs. It sat bathed in a column of moonlight, pen propped against its monochrome cover, looking for all the world like a treasure from some hipster video game. A gust of wind gently flopped its cover open, exposing the hideous scrawl that was my unpracticed handwriting. Disjointed imagery of broken memories. It took me until morning to finish, like writing in a trance. I was almost too ashamed of it to turn it in.

…almost.

\--------------------------------

**I remember… nothing.**

**Do not misunderstand me; I have not lost my memories. …or rather, I have not yet lost _all_ my memories.**

**I remember _nothingness._**

**I remember the blackness between life and life. I remember as nausea and weakness wracked my small frame… as even those few sensations gave way.  I remember feeling fear like an abstract, a faraway thing. I remember the cold, the emptiness. I remember loneliness punctuated by faraway warmth, by visits from too-teary family. I remember half-heard entreaties from my father, regrets and apologies from my brother. I remember as the world slowed, my vision tunneled, my eyes closed. I remember as life gave way to nothing.**

**…**

**I remember as nothing gave way to _life_. **

**I remember a familiar warmth, all-encompassing, yet somehow just out of reach. I remember moving towards it, not by force of limb but by force of _will_ , inching through time, clawing through space. I remember that warmth enveloping me, desperate, pulling me into a life both alien and familiar all at once.**

**Our vision swam as he opened his eyes. My perception shuddered at his alien viewpoint – foreign colors, more vivid and more varied than I remembered in life – then shuddered again as I recognized the object of his attention. Me.**

**He was staring at my body, thin and ragged, spattered with its – _my_ – blood. Wreathed and pocked with sores… dead and cooling in his arms.**

**I had died.**

**He was content to weep, to lament the loss of his innocence, the end of his childhood. The end of the family he had held so dear. I was not. We had a plan; I would not die for nothing. Not today.**

**I could feel the magic coursing through this unfamiliar body – raw magical potential, birthed of this fusion of human and monster. It was raw, yes, but it could be _shaped._ Bent to my will. So I did.**

**So we flew.**

**Borne aloft on wings of might and magic, we cut through the Barrier like a knife through tissue paper. I remember bursting into the morning sun, its unfamiliar warmth cascading over both of our bodies. It had been years since I had seen the sun. But this was not the time for nostalgia.**

**I sent us hurtling through space towards the familiar shapes of my village, and spent some time learning more about our new capabilities. This body nearly rippled with magical power. Gossamer wings of pure force held us aloft, shimmering with colors I had never seen before… at least, not in _my_ life. More of the magic his family was so renowned for – that _monsters_ were so renowned for. Convenient, that his eyes could see the lines of power so easily.**

**He kept himself occupied with the nostalgia I had forsaken, clutching my body tight to his chest. His thoughts, his feelings – despair, regret, loss – continuously washed over mine; it was constant effort to keep my will clear and sharp. Try as I might, I could not keep our vision wholly clear of his tears. Inconvenient… but in the end, irrelevant.**

**Mere minutes after dying in my new home, I landed in my old one.**

**Immediately we set out for the center of town. He remembered my “dying wish,” to see the flowers of my hometown; a cursory glance at my “memories” told him exactly where to go. He was learning quickly. I kept a tight hold on my body.**

**The town square was dominated by an open field of flowers, ringed on all sides by buildings. The flowers grew with abandon here, thick like a carpet of velvet sunrise. The flowers that had been an orphan’s only friend… it was nice to see them again as we laid my body down among them. But they were not the real reason I wanted to come here.**

**Screams of horror and rage went up from the buildings ringing the field. It was hard to keep the grim satisfaction from my thoughts as the townsfolk emerged, incensed. They had behaved exactly as I’d hoped – they thought he had killed a human child. They never even recognized what child.**

**It was not long before they threw the first stone… literally. An unarmed peasant scooped up a surprisingly hefty rock, spitting vulgarities, and hucked the stone at our head. It barely made it into the flowerbed.**

**It was the thought that counted.**

**I did my best not to laugh, lifting our arm and gathering the magic to obliterate them all. It would be the work of seconds with our newfound power. There were dozens of peop- _humans_ , here; surely at least six would have the determination in their SOULs to be useful to us. I tried not to relish in the wakening fear in their eyes as they realized their mistake, as fire and force and swirling death gathered in his outstretched fingers.**

**But he refused.**

**I could not summon up the power anymore; he would not let me. I felt all control wrested from my influence by the blossoming heat of his newfound will. Ignoring my protests, despite my warnings, he lowered his arm and closed his eyes. We had the power to end them all… but he refused to hurt them.**

**The next stone struck us full in the face.**

**He staggered, collapsing onto hands and knees just above my body, his eyes tearing up from the shock of pain. Two more rocks struck him before he could even think of getting to his feet. I began to panic as I felt his rib crack, his good arm give out. It was not long before the rocks gave way to clubs and farm implements. Yet still he lay there as if protecting my body, a grim smile on his pain-wracked face, enduring this senseless violence without loosing a single spell. His agony, foreign yet familiar, began to dull his senses and tunnel his vision.**

**Yet still I could not regain control.**

**Finally he had had enough. With his one good arm he roughly scooped my body up, tearing a baker’s dozen of yellow flowers out of the ground with me. Our wings snapped open as he launched himself into the air, bowling a few overzealous murderer-wannabes over with the force of our backdraft. His entire being, all of his mind, was focused on going home.**

**Yet still I could not regain control.**

**We careened through the familiar crater of Mount Ebott, knifing through the Barrier, crashing through the windows and skidding to a halt in the throne room of our father’s castle. Our vision swam with tears and pain; I felt rather than saw our mother lift his broken body from the detritus our entry had displaced.**

**Yet still I could not regain control.**

**I could only watch as he explained everything to them – our visit, the villagers’ rage, our madcap flight back. And yet… he left out my influence. He never mentioned that I tried to kill them all, never mentioned the desires he must have felt from me. He said nothing of my plans. He never even told them I was still here – that my consciousness was still in my SOUL, still listening even now. Even as I floated powerless, dying for the second time today… he still protected me. I will never understand why.**

**I remember as his willpower faded, as his determination waned, our body began to waver. I remember the tearful goodbyes, our father’s entreaties, our mother’s tears mixing with his own… I remember his last words, to all three of us: “I’m so sorry.” I remember my consciousness losing its grip as our vision tunneled and our eyes closed.**

**I remember as life gave way to nothing.**

\--------------------------------

…

In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have submitted that.

Around lunchtime I was called to the Guidance office. Apparently Professor Stringbean had taken one look at my writing and picked up the office phone. What followed was the most tedious half an hour of “standard procedure” interviews in my entire life, finally punctuated by Toriel herself being summoned. By the time Mom was given some sort of explanation she was somewhere between mortified, livid and panicked – and it was getting hard to tell which emotion was directed at whom. An hour passed before I was finally “released into her custody” like some sort of convicted felon.

The car ride home was among the most awkward things I have ever experienced. Neither of us said anything; Mom kept furtively glancing my way in the rearview mirror, hoping I would start the conversation. I was too busy seething. _So much for “our writing samples remain private,” huh?_ I thought to myself, glaring absently into the space between the front seats. _So much… for…_ my thoughts trailed off as a new horror grew in the pit of my stomach.

My Creative Writing notebook was in the passenger’s seat, next to Mom. Open.

The office must have given it to her to read as an explanation.

_…fuck._

 


	2. Heavy Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asriel _et al_ listen in, while Chara gets chewed out.

“I am trying very hard not to be angry at you, Chara.”

Frisk winced from their hidey-hole next to me. Mom _never_ used that tone with them… or with me, really. Only Chara ever seemed to get the full force of Momwrath; we’d only heard it from afar – like from here, hiding in the linen closet at the top of the stairs. I felt bad that Chara had to go through this alone.

Something’d happened at school today, far as I could tell. Chara wasn’t there when Mom came to pick us up. She’d said Chara got sent home early today… that Chara “had gotten in trouble with the office.” Mom kept looking at me funny in the mirror the whole ride home – this sort of half-sad, half-disappointed face that made me want to hide behind my ears. What had Chara done..?

“No, I am not going to punish you. Or Asriel.” I nearly jumped hearing my own name. What? What did this have to do with _me_? “It was so long ago… and besides, I would never punish you for something like that. That’s not…”

I… what? “Long ago?” Frisk looked just as confused as I probably did. How long ago was this afternoon? I didn’t remember Frisk LOADing… and Mom wouldn’t remember that anyway, would she..?

“I just… I wish you had told me, is all. Do you understand?” I barely heard Mom sigh. It sounded like Chara hadn’t been talking at all, which was weird by itself. Mom yelling at Chara usually turned into Mom and Chara yelling at each other, which always ended in Frisk hiding from the loud noises and Chara grounded for awhile. This was different: Mom sounded more sad, more hesitant than angry, and Chara… didn’t sound like anything. If Chara was talking at all, it couldn’t be much louder than a whisper.

“What?” A pause. “I don’t _hate_ you, child, no… what would—“

“Well why not?!” _There_ was Chara’s voice, finally. Maybe now we’d get some answers. “It’s not like I didn’t, oh, I dunno, _take both your children from you!?_ ”

Um. What? Frisk’s hands went to their mouth, sudden recognition flashing across their face. Good, at least somebody got what was going on? I guess? “What’s Chara talking about..?” I whispered, as Frisk started frantically signing about _homework_ and _writing_ and—

“…bad enough I killed _myself_ , right?! Ruined your _perfect storybook family_ and all?”

“Chara..!” Mom tried to interject.

Chara wasn’t having it, apparently. “But then I _possessed Asriel_ like some sort of _demon_ , right?! Flung us through the barrier, nearly murdered an entire village for their SOULs? Asriel _died_ keeping me from starting another war, did you forget that part?! _What do you mean you don’t hate me?!_ ”

I. Uhm. Well. I was starting to get dizzy from all the blood rushing out of my face, and Frisk… poor Frisk. They were actively curled up now, staring blankly off into the distance as the sounds of… sniffling? I peered over at Frisk; they weren’t crying, yet. Then who—

“…I just wanted to _help_ ,” came Chara’s muffled voice from downstairs. Their voice was actually shaking. “I just wanted to… I dunno, do something _useful_ with this waste of a life…”

“Oh, child, no…” Mom was trying her best to be soothing. All the anger and disappointment was gone from her voice, now.

“…I didn’t _care_ about dying, if it meant you got to be free.” Chara took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. “That was why I came to Mount Ebott in the first place. I wasn’t… I’m not afraid to die…”

Chara got cut off at that point, their voice muffled even further by something. I couldn’t hear anything at all. It was almost half a minute before I worked up the nerve to poke my head out of the linen closet for a second.

Mom and Chara were flopped on the couch downstairs, thankfully facing the fireplace and not me. Mom had tugged Chara into her chest, and was practically curled up around them; every once in awhile, her head shook as she tried to fight back a sob. I could barely see Chara’s shocked face in the gap between Mom’s ears and her shoulder. “…Mom..?”

I retreated back into the linen closet as Mom got her breathing under control, setting Chara back down on the couch. “Please… please do not talk like that, my child. You should never have to—“

“I didn’t _care_ , Mom,” Chara insisted, stunning Mom into silence again. “I still don’t.” I could practically hear the world-weary smile in their voice as they continued. “If it meant all of monsterkind could go free… if it meant the only family that was ever n-nice to me got to be happy… what does my life mean, in the face of that..?”

“Chara…” Mom finally managed, quieter than before. “What makes you think we would have been happy with that?”

“…what..? Of course you – didn’t you want to go to the Surface again? You _hated_ being trapped underground! Everyone did! A-and don’t give me some ‘Oh, it wasn’t so bad’ garbage – you _know_ the only thing that kept monsters going was the hope of getting free…”

“…it wasn’t the only thing,” Mom replied, still quiet.

“…h-huh?”

“In those bleak times, when our future seemed darkest, it wasn’t memories of the Surface or hopes of vengeance that kept us going.”

“…the prophecy? Don’t tell me some hokey relig—“

“Our _families_ ,” Mom interjected, “kept us going.” The soft squeak of fabric dragging on fabric meant either Mom had pushed herself closer to Chara or pulled Chara back into her arms again. Maybe both. “Making smiles, even in that dark Underground, kept us going. Knowing we always had the support of our loved ones, kept us going. Knowing that no matter how bad things got, there were always those who loved us, just for who we are… _that_ , more than any ‘hokey religion’ or royal decree, kept us hopeful for the future.”

“I am not mad at you, Chara.” Mom’s voice started to turn steely. “I am, however, disappointed – disappointed that you thought so little of us.”

“…I… w-what..?” Chara’s voice was quiet now, trembling.

“After everything we showed you, that’s what you thought? We took you in, nursed you back to health… raised you as our own. You became part of our _lives_ , child… your joy was as much ours as your sadness. We lived and loved and worked and strived together… we were a _family_. We _loved_ you, Chara… even now, I do. I love you, with all of my heart, Chara Dreemurr…” Another squeak of fabric on fabric, maybe masking a sniffle. “…and you thought you could make me happy by taking my child away from me? That a thousand years of sunlight and flowers would ever make up for the loss of your smile?”

“…I-I just…” Chara barely managed to squeak, trying to get a word in edgewise. This time it was Mom who wasn’t having any of it.

“The finest delicacies the Surface has to offer would have turned to _ashes_ on my tongue, knowing you would never get to try them. Every happy memory I would have ever made would have been tarnished by the wish that you were there to share it with. I was never able to look at our home again without seeing the ghosts of the joy I had l-lost…” Mom had to stop herself, her breathing getting forced as she fought to keep herself under control. Chara seemed too shell-shocked to say anything.

“…I have moved a lot of furniture in my life, you know?” A sad smile crept back into Mom’s voice as she continued. “A lot of heavy things…” her voice cracked, making her pause for a second more. “…but nothing I have _ever_ carried… was as heavy as your coffin.”

“…Mom, I… I-I’m _sorry_ —“ Chara finally managed.

“…please don’t ever think that the best way you can help our family is by removing yourself from it.” Another soft squeak of fabric on fabric. “Please..? Don’t make an old woman beg.”

“I w-won’t, I promise… I… Mom, I-I’m sorry… I did-didn’t…” Chara’s protests disintegrated into sobs pretty quickly after that. Sniffles from behind me announced that Frisk had joined in the waterworks.

A blurriness in my vision caught me by surprise; a wipe at my eyes brought my fingers away wet. _Heh… guess there’s one part of being Flowey that I miss,_ I thought bitterly to myself, plopping down on the carpet next to Frisk. _I really am a crybaby_ … I fought back a sniffle as I laced my fingers into Frisk’s hair, hoping the act would soothe one or both of us. It didn’t.

It was a long time before either of us had enough control over our emotions to risk sneaking out of the linen closet. Mom was asleep on the couch, Chara curled up in her arms. Both of them had clearly been crying. I wasn’t sure what to do until Frisk pushed past me, barreling down the stairs to curl up on the couch next to Mom.

Seemed like as good an idea as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> This is my first fic on AO3, and my first fic in a long time; please, leave a comment if you liked what you saw. It really helps a lot.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome - I'm always looking for ways to get better.
> 
> Don't worry, this feels trip isn't over yet.


End file.
